


It's All Well And Good (I'm Spider-Man)

by Kennzierella



Category: Amazing Spider-Man (2012), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (Peter saves someone and pays the price by his parents), (Tony and Steve have different ways of dealing), Alternate Universe, Angst, Arguments/Fighting, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Superfamily, Superfamily (Marvel), Superhusbands, Superhusbands (Marvel), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-06 03:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18380237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennzierella/pseuds/Kennzierella
Summary: "I can't.... I can't lose you, Peter! I can't. It would be the death of me.... I just can't."Peter gazed on, absolutely unaffected by how his father was; no, on the contrary, he was heartbroken. But his face did not show it; the profile was cold, animalistically vicious. He hated seeing his father so upset, his pop too. However, that did nothing to change how he felt, how angry he was. He was a hero, he was Spider-man. This was all he ever wanted to be. To be like his fathers: amazing.Peter knew that this was bad. But, what else was there for him to do?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again beautiful people!
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read my little story. Kind of needed to get something out after having just watched TASM again after so long. I hope you enjoy and feel free to let me know what you thought. Advice is always welcomed too!
> 
> SUMMERY: Peter saves a guy from being mugged and gets beat up during the fight. His dads, Tony and Steve, deal with the outcome as they see fit.

_Peter knew that this was bad. But, what else was there for him to do?_

 

It seemed as though everything that night had entered an undetectable  _Twilight Zone_. Like the entire world, and all that was commonplace, got swallowed whole by an entity of all around unnatural proportions. The city that night was dead. A proving feat considering its basis in the great state of New York, typically a magnet for all things on the contrary. Clouds plundered across the sky, blackening the landscape to a depressing ebony, yet they too seemed immobile. Save for the two or so cars that would pass by, there was no observable active life. Everyone was seemingly trying to reach, or be, some place else. 

Stores were forced to be laid unoccupied and barren. Uninspired iridescent lights and signs illuminated the lonely graveled streets and concrete sidewalks. Collected dust and debris too seemed of a forsaken despair, for the piles settled stupidly beside the ruined apartment complexes and abandoned homes. Even the miscellaneous roadside trash and litter seemed to be lacking. They as well must have migrated to some other distant, horrid land of filth. 

With the uncommon and the unusual taking up normalcy, the scene was undoubtedly odd. Yet, the ambiance and corresponding impression left little to no impact on the sole mortal whom walked. Though he were alone, kicking freely against loose rocks and pebbles with the bottoms of his black and white  _Converse_ sneakers, the young boy named Peter felt content. His moss green overcoat, coupled with the layerings of both a stone-blue long sleeved top and a merlot colored undershirt, averted whatever coldness that dared to brush by. The same could not be said of his hair, however. For how much it was already messy, balancing along the thin line of unkempt and modern chic, the winds ruffled lightly through the chocolate hued strands, weaving the locks into wildly shapes. A problem that Peter did not bother to fix. 

The stillness of the surrounding environment, and all that came with the bland range of sound, after some time, had become a thing of which Peter became used to as he kept on in his evening stroll home. Stark Tower was not so far away. And it was not so long a struggle that a cab would be in need of. Not that there were any to be seen, no one was around. So Peter trudged onward, keeping his head down and shoulders relaxed. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to stop him. 

_**"Hey, man, I don't have any money. Please, just let me go!"** _

Wrenched back by his own two feet, Peter halted his steps to an almost completion, stopping. The sound was faint, practically bordered the line of a spoken whisper, yet Peter was sure that he heard correctly. Someone was in need of help. The boy listened to the nearby commotion patiently, his sensitive ears honing in on any and all sound that could have possibly decided to stir. His brindled eyes rested downward, staring at the ground with such an intensity that he feared would crack the cemented concrete. Brows knotted together in concentration. Everything slowed, and Peter breathed deeply, sweat pooled at the base of his neck. Then, just as before, it came.

 _ **"I swear, I got nothing! Please! Stop!"**_  

Dashing off to the closest side alley, Peter ran, bolting as fast as his legs would carry. Hurdling over broken bottles, trashed garbage bags, and whatever it was that laid to rot on those city streets, Peter raced with purpose. And yet, even as he darted between buildings, slithered beside and through rundown backstreets, his mind wondered to an unavoidable question. One he knew his fathers, Steve Rogers and Tony Stark respectfully, would undeniably ask should he come out of this thing alive. But there was no time for it, no time to think about grabbing his  _suit_. Someone was in trouble, he needed to get there fast. No questions asked. 

With his ears ringing against his brain in directional authority, the boy hurried around corner ways and straight lanes, wherever was demanded. Finally, faltering near a bend in the pathway he was on, with his shoes scraping the jagged street, Peter ceased his chase. Discreetly, he shielded his body with the adjacent bricked building's wall, taking cover. It was most likely a condo, vacated surely. He huffed out regardless, his breath tried to regain some composure. 

As he continued in his efforts for air recovery, Peter shifted around the wall's edge, peering, so that he may see what laid before himself. His fingers braced against the rugged, worn rims of the bricks. Peter did not want to go out quickly for being ill prepared. If there was to be a strike, he wished to be the first to do so. However, as he listened, looked through his surroundings, he began to believe himself wrong. There was nothing there. Not a sound. Shocked at his blunder, the boy turned away, setting up to head back to another possible route. Then suddenly, it happened once more. 

_**"Please, I just want to go home."** _

Peter jerked back to his starting position with an instantaneous motion. How he missed the owner of the voice, how he could not see them beforehand, he had no idea. But certainly, in looking back now, two distinct forms appeared before his eyes. Two men. Sighing in relief, he silently thanked the genetically mutated spiders for their abnormal gift. Without them, he would have been rendered blind, for the nighttime gloom had made everything disgustingly dark. Peter could just so make out the colorations of the two men before him. He watched on with a feline gaze.  

Decked out in a suit and complimentary tie, with his hair combed to perfection, the presumed victim looked anything like the stockbroker he most likely was. Of what was left of his former excellence had gone out the door. His hair, peppered with the obvious beginnings of aging, was mangled and twisted; it was clear to Peter that he had been socked hard. The man's nose was in no better shape, the blood that oozed was a tell tale sign. Nothing seemed broken, but from what Peter could tell this victim had been roughed up pretty bad. That suit of his was ripped from shoulder to the wrist on one arm, and a large, unforgiving hole had been slashed right across his chest leading somewhat down his stomach. Everything below the belt looked in better condition. Except for the reminiscence of dust and dirt. 

For some reason, in seeing this man the way he was, Peter felt his throat tighten. Now, it was not like he had never seen anything like this before, he was Spider-Man after all. But the victim's face, his pleading eyes, struck a chord within the boy. Perhaps it had to do with age; the man was not old by any means, but it was easy to see that his years of boyhood had been gone for some time. There were a few wrinkles, particularly by his eyes, of which were an emerald green. Perhaps it was due to Peter taking notice of the man's ring, a little gold band that was just maybe one size too small. He could have been a father too. And Peter could only imagine that if it were true, that this man might have children, the image of their father in such a state would be heartbreaking. Peter could not allow some 'what if' kids to lose their dad. He knew if it were him, he would want someone to save his own, if needed. 

_"Shut up, man! I know you got something on you. No man with a get up like yours goes home empty handed! Now, just give me what you got, and there won't need to be any trouble."_

Peter did not need to see the monster's face, for his voice was enough once heard, slick and raspy as it was. This little game of strengths had to end. The boy had made up his mind.

"Excuse me," Peter called, removing himself from the safety of his wall, revealing his presence. "I believe this gentleman here said he didn't have anything. And you bothering him about it ain't gonna get you anywhere. So, I think it's best for everybody if you just leave him alone. Let him go." 

With a startled gasp, the man of the hour turned around, and looked over his shoulder to Peter while firmly pinning his victim against the wall. He looked just as Peter thought he would; middle aged, missing teeth, a nose crooked from perhaps one too many fights. The sprouts of baldness and uneven stubble did nothing to add to whatever remaining bits of attractiveness remained. The punk smelt of trouble too, and most pungent of all, sewage. Grinning, the man chuckled at Peter, snickering in some fashion that only he thought funny.

The assailant cautioned, cooing to the tune of a sickening lullaby, "look kid, why don't you just go on home? Bet you got homework to do. Ain't nothing to see here. Just gonna have a quick talk with my new buddy. Please, just go on. Leave us be."

The villainous tone cut through Peter like the edge of a sharp knife to flesh.There was nothing about this guy that was redeemable. His complete lack of respect to Peter's warning did nothing to improve his standings either. For the creep continued with his abuse on the poor man, teasing him with threats and humiliation unlike anything Peter had seen up until that point. The boy shook his head, he come to the realization that some people will just never learn. 

Chiding, he said, locking his gaze with the victim, "I told you that you should let him go."

Before a confused ' _huh_ ' could escape his lips, Peter shot a web straight onto his opponent's dusty leather jacket, yanking him. Flicking his wrist to the right, Peter flung the body against the wall of which had shielded him moments before. The foundation cracked. The man released a coughed out groan, completely thrown off guard. Peter went toward him, readying himself to really teach this man a lesson in morality. Yet, he paused for a moment, freezing his steps. He looked at the victim in a way only a son would understand. The man must have felt it too, for he nodded, giving thanks to Peter for saving his hide. He sprinted away thereafter, hopefully back toward home. 

Crushing junk underneath his feet, Peter resumed his attention back onto the elder man. But in taking one too many a step, accidentally miscounting, the boy offered the man an opportunity to strike. That of which he did. Standing slightly, blowing Peter in the gut, his fist rammed the boy's stomach. The man, sickenly skinny, surprisingly had a mighty strength. And for however dumb he actually was, his smarts were there, be it only a few. Taking in Peter's bend, an attempt to hide away his stomach from further attack, the man squared Peter in the mouth. The boy fell swiftly to the ground.

In trying to get back onto his own feet, Peter climbed to his knees and hands with speed. But it was not fast enough, for his aggressor uncaringly kicked the child's face, forcing him back down. His nose crunched.

"I told you to leave, didn't I?" The man hollered, circling the younger of the two. "But no, little pretty boy had to be the hero."

Feet swung and kicked toward Peter's body, contorting the frame to bent and misshapen displays. There was a crack, a cough; Peter was hurting. The man would not stop. Kicks rained down to be what seemed continuous, almost unreal. Peter could feel his bones screaming, the wind was being knocked out of him every time he had just enough strength to reel air in. His body ached in sweat and new found blood, both of which seeped through his clothing effortlessly. The clothes were stained with the ever pressing savagery.

Gently nudging Peter onto his back with the shove of his heel, the man crept over and knelt on top of the weakened body. He grabbed at the boy's shirt collar, thrusting his head toward himself, and punched him sadistically. Peter's skin broke and shattered from the blow, unquestionably bruising. He gasped for air.

"Well, bud," soothed the man as he stood up, deciding that now Peter was firmly done for. "I'm gonna show you what happens to people who decide to play hero against me."

The man howled and laughed. To him, this battle already had a destined victor, and Peter was as good as dead anyway. Even as he laid there, all mangled and beaten to a pulp, Peter thought this himself too. Maybe he had chosen the wrong battle to fight. Maybe he should have been more careful, less stubborn to save every life that needed saving. Because sometimes, just sometimes people are not meant to be saved. But how could he go on like that? Peter knew, he could not; the idea was bone chilling, nearly sent him to shock. Everyone had a right to be saved.

Peter turned over, and rose up from his place on the ground. His knees shook as he stretched back up. He wobbled in place; his legs turned to jelly and his hands trembled with passion. Whether out of fear, or some hint of respect, the man backed down, backed away. Peter eyed him thoroughly.

" _Maybe next time, bud_ ," the boy growled, standing tall.

With a twist of his fingers, Peter shot a string of web right toward the man's ghastly face; it clung and encased his eyes and nose with a solid grip. Clawing at his silky shackles, the man tried to break free; an effort that Peter expertly foiled. Using his shooters, he entangled the man's legs, weaving a most intricate of designs between them. The attacker collapsed to the hard floor, shouting and cursing without hesitation. His hands were plastered to the ground thereafter.

Peter smirked, wincing, "guess you can say I play hero pretty good, huh? Like it just comes naturally." 

By the time Peter's brain could register the aftermath of his beating, the youth had already taken several steps toward home. As he walked, limping and flinching as he went, he worried as to if he would even make it home in one piece. It felt as if every bone and corresponding muscle had taken the day off; there was nothing holding him up. He wished for nothing more in that moment than to crawl into bed, and to sleep off his pains. But the ache was deemed worthy, for he had saved a life. There was no better excuse than that. 

But he knew, as many his age did, that the reckoning of his parents would be far worse than anything experienced that night. Especially with his parents being who they were. And now, Peter knew that this was bad. But, what else was there for him to do? He could only hobble as he thought about what was to come.


	2. Chapter 2

_"It's been over fifteen minutes."_

 

Exactly like clockwork, there it was, chiming louder and louder every time. It happened after five, it went on at ten; the minutes were being counted. The work would seem obsessive, but not to Tony Stark, the man of whom stood by the closest kitchen counter, starring at the adjacent oven's built in clock. Watching for burns on the pizza currently being cooked was his excuse for being there, but he knew the real reason why. 

Dressed in his best sweatpants and a black  _AC/DC_  sleeveless shirt, Tony was ready for a night of relaxation with his son and husband. It was the family's Friday night tradition. It was something that Tony could be excited for with each coming week. Peter would come home from whatever he was doing, schoolwork or otherwise, and Steve would pick the most boring movie on the planet to watch. Pizza was always in order for dinner. And although at times the flood of cheese and processed tomato sauce nearly killed him, the sight of seeing Peter struggle with a strand of mozzarella too long for his mouth, made it all the more bearable. 

Having the night end with holding them both, watching each pass out from the soullessness of the movie of choice, was the best thing Tony could ask for. Especially concerning Peter, who he figured, would not want to do such for much longer. The boy might soon see cuddling with his father as being 'uncool', a word Tony swore was the complete opposite of himself. But Tony would use the time he had now with his son to his own advantage. For if Peter was fine with it, Tony was not going to push him away. Rather, he would invite the boy in, always. But that was seemingly not happening according to plan, since Peter was late. Beyond late in his father's eyes.

"Don't worry, babe," Steve told him from across the room. His eyes scanned their stacks of DVDs that nestled on a wire rack by the TV. "I'm sure he stopped by a store to get something to drink or a snack before our movie night. He would never come home late on purpose. Besides, he's a teenage boy, do they ever really do anything on time?"

"Yeah, well, he's  _our_ teenage boy," Tony grumbled, arms crossed over his chest. "Better be a good excuse, since he doesn't even send out a text message of where he's at. Especially to his own fathers. I should have had JARVIS call him."

Steve chuckled, picking up one of the DVD boxes and inspecting its contents, "I'm sure he'll be home any second."

Steve's calmness was both a great annoyance and a wanting trait for Tony. He wished he could be so laid back, not so jittered up and nervous about anything and everything concerning his son. But at the same token, how could Steve not be? Peter was his child, a beautiful one at that; any monster would without a doubt seize at the moment to steal him away. That is not to say that Tony did not trust Peter, oh no, he knew better. He had seen his son in pure action. The kid could defend himself ten fold. But that was his baby, his soul and heart that ran right out of his own body. Any parent would feel the same. Any parent would be afraid for their children as he. Mostly, if that child was fifteen minutes late from expectancy.

The older man sighed deeply, and ran a hand through his dark chestnut locks. Tony was so unlike either one of his parents that it downright amazed him at times. For a man who felt that he lacked any and all paternal and maternal love, he could unceremoniously pour his own onto his son. It was as if missing out on that feeling, those important emotions, was not needed of. With Peter, it came so naturally. 

When he was Peter's age, Tony did so many stupid things, so many things he wished that he could change. Even now, decades later, he wished he could go back, be it only once. He wished he could have done better. Steve would have had so much more now if he did, Tony could spoil him properly. The same could be said for Peter, though truly, Tony could do so whenever he wanted now. He had the means. But there was a part of him that felt as if all of this was not enough. They deserved everything, the moon and stars too. Tony never wanted either of them to be without, love or otherwise. 

He supposed that is why he did the things he did, Stark that is. Perhaps some piece of him wanted to hide away the past, wanted to ignore the sex, drugs, and cruelty. That was not him. Not now anyway. Tony was a married man, a good man with an even more wonderful husband. And he had a son, adopted obviously, but no less his own. If only he knew back then, when he was drunk and lonesome. 

"Twenty minutes, Steve." 

Exhaling in irritation, with fatherly worry creeping up his spine, Tony walked over to the front door, ready to rush out to look for any sign of his son. Before he made another step, the front door creaked open slowly, as if the person behind its movement was frightened to enter. Stark walked back to where he originally stood sharply, waiting. Tony could hear the effort in the coming steps as they grew closer, dragging on the tiled flooring. Sneakers hulled along inside, sounding heavy and weighed down. Whomever this was, and Tony was sure he knew who, was in a great deal of discomfort. He of all people would know. 

Peter immigrated into the doorway lethargically with his back turned and head down. Even though he could not hear his parents, he knew that they were there, silently. He could feel Tony's eyes glaring into the back of his head, burning holes into his brain.

To say that Tony was upset, would be an understatement. Peter did not have to look to know that. His father had one of the most powerful gazes, his emotions shined through his eyes like a mirror. Peter could not dare catch glimpses with his other father either though; Steve had eyes of purity. The boy knew he would crack instantly and confess to all. 

Peter theorized that if he were to turn around, and act as if nothing happened, everything would be uncovered. One look at his face and body and all would be done. They could probably already tell; he was holding an uneven limp. Perhaps, he thought, if he were to stand there, maybe they would not bother to ask. But who was he kidding? He knew his parents. 

Taking in the awkwardness of Peter's just standing there, face turned away, Steve said, "hey, buddy. Good to see you home. I was just looking for a movie to watch, if you wanted to help me. I was thinking maybe a comedy?"

Of all the things Peter wished he never forgot, he honestly wished that he never forgot that day's date. It was a Friday, and not just any Friday, his family's movie night. It was no wonder why Tony was eyeballing him the way that he was. The boy was late. And Peter could not deny the facts behind that. There seemed to be no where for him to go, no where to hide now. 

"Yeah, sure thing, pop. I'll help you look, I just need a second to freshin' up," Peter whimpered out, trying with every ounce left to sound unhurt. His acting skills were anything less than passing, so it seemed, because as soon as he opened his mouth, his father was on him. 

Moving close to Peter's side, Tony surveyed his stance and posture with a parental gaze. His hand graced upward to Peter's cheek, a touch meant to draw his attention if anything else. The boy's wince away before any contact was made, told Tony everything he had to know. "Look at me, Peter," he demanded, using his most delicate voice to string the words together. "Look at me."

Doing as he was told, wanting to avoid a fight, the boy looked up at his father, two shades of brown melting as one. The room was a deadly quiet, even the dust halted still. Tony must have made a noise, for Steve was on the other side of Peter within a flash; standing over him like a towering oak. 

Tony scowled and spoke, his voice hardened with a bitter edge, "who did this?"

Steve gently tried to pry off Peter's jacket as Tony asked his question, wanting to see more of his son's state, wanting to see more of the damage taken by his sweet Peter. Who could have done this? Who could have done this to a young boy? Part of Steve did not even want to know. He feared the answer, he feared his reaction. Peter only shrugged off his advancements, pushing away from both him and Tony.

"No one, dad," the boy mumbled, fixing his eyes on both parents, one at a time. He figured that should he leave now, make his escape, he may have time to better his circumstances or, in the least, give himself time to think of some good answers. It was only when he actually shifted, turning his back on his parents, that he learned of his mistake. A most dreadful one any child could make.

" _Peter Benjamin_ ," Tony roared out, making a note of the limp his son had. "I asked you a God damn question; who did this to you?" 

Usage of the middle name was grounds for a serious, inescapable discussion; Peter knew this best. No way was he going to be getting out of this, that chance was gone. Peter staggered as he faced back to his fathers, his leg almost failing him in the final step. Steve was already preparing himself to catch his son, should his body give out on him. He would have gone to him then, but Tony pawed at his wrist and held him in place, wanting to hear about whomever this bastard was that beat his Peter. 

Finally, in accepting defeat, Peter stuttered quietly, "it was some guy by Austin Street, he was...."

It was not until he was actually mere inches off the ground, that Peter noticed he had nearly fainted. Steve was there instantly, Tony not far behind. The blond scooped Peter up like it was nothing, catching him before he could have ever made contact with the floor. Without even a hint of struggle, Steve carried Peter to the living room's leather bound couch, and held him in his arms, sitting up. Rogers could feel the exhaustion oozing off of his son, he could feel the rigid and semi wet patches of blood that blemished his shirts and jacket, pants too. Tenderly, he worked the jacket off of Peter's shoulder's, paying no mind to the babbling of protests he heard.

As a man of the Second World War, Steve was no stranger to the chaos and destruction of violence. Even as an Avenger, he had grown used to seeing some spills and broken bones. But in that moment, seeing Peter so brutalized as he was, Steve felt his coolness crumble. He was panicking in his own Captain Americanized way. His hands trembled and his breathing was uneven, he noticed Tony was no better off. He cradled his son close, whispering sweetly to him as he and his husband worked for Peter's betterment. 

"Tony," Steve yelped out, his voice shaking as he could see the scatterings of bruises and gashes along Peter's arms. "Tony, he's covered. He's got bruises everywhere, and, oh my God, he's bleeding. Tony, he's bleeding right through his shirt. Fuck, oh my, Tony. Tony, his face, look at his face!"

Tony had run off to grab whatever medical supplies was handy, and being Tony Stark, it was plentiful. Still, he was no doctor, and feared his son was in need of true curative care. Kneeling in front of the two, once he had found what he was looking for, Tony opened the emergency kit, and examined its holdings. He chose the towelette first, wanting to clean off his son's face. But there was so much damage, Tony was not sure where to begin, where to start.

Steve watched as his spouse dug through the kit, choosing and picking which item would heal Peter quickest. But he could not help to notice how terribly the man quivered. Tony was rattling to the core, his big eyes gleamed with a fear so deep that Steve knew he, himself, would never actually be able to touch. Tony was thinking back to those memories. Stark was descending. Though, he was holding himself together in whatever way he could, for Peter no doubt. He could not lose it just yet. 

Daintily, the older father patted and smooth along the curves and contours of Peter's face, cleaning the skin of blood. Peter had never seen Tony so stricken, his hand was shaking awfully, his wide eyes were wet and shinning. Steve was unlike anything else too; his son could feel the tension in his arms as he held him close. Peter loved to be doted on, but this was not the way he wished to have been so. Not with all this suffering, all this anxiety. He was about to say something, to properly tell his fathers of his brave actions, when the feeling of the cloth pressing against the side of his nose jolted his nerves. Needless to say, the boy whimpered miserably.

"I'm sorry, baby," Tony whispered, sounding like he was slipping into a cry. He clenched his jaw as he continued his work, taking an even more sluggish approach to this clean up. Nothing on the face seemed broken, thank God, but Tony knew that there was more, so much more. He breathed out. The man was beyond livid. 

Cutting back into the air, Peter uttered, trying to make all of this justifiable: "Dad, it's not what you think. You see there was this guy and he-"

"Steve, help him get out of his shirts, I need to see what's going on down there," his father hashed out, interrupting.

Classic Tony, this was his father. Not one to ignore a problem but wanting to fix any and all. Peter should have seen this coming. His father did not care about the past situation, he only cared about the aftermath. That being his son battered. Peter assumed it was apart of his PTSD, or possibly, his own stab at controlling his anger. But this would not get anyone one of them anywhere. Even as Steve forced him to undress, practically tugging the garment off himself, Peter objected.

The boy grunted, finding his voice once his shirt was free and his chest exposed, "no, pop, dad, wait! You have to listen to me. There was this guy. He was being mugged. This guy was trying to rob him. Dad, I stopped him. He's on the ground right now wrapped up. I saved him. I saved him, pop."

There was a lengthy silence before anyone said anything, and Peter worried that he might have killed his parents due to shock. Tony, whether pretending to not have heard or not, continued with his nursing. He wiped away the blood, dutifully checked on bruises, rubbed the appropriate cream into cuts. Peter looked like hell, but there were no broken ribs, nor legs, Tony was sure to check those too. He was a wreck, but nothing time would not heal. The local hospital was not to include another, and for that Tony was grateful.

Whatever brand of cream was used, however it was that his father cleansed his face and body, Peter could sense himself becoming better. Not to that of what he was before the altercation, but something beyond what he had been before he arrived home. His flesh ached but the pain was minute. The blood that had soiled himself and his clothes was gone, at least in relation to his own body. The jeans would need to be washed, twice over. 

Peter relaxed into Steve's muscled chest, melted right within his arms embrace. If it had been any other moment, he would have playfully fought off his father's affections, only merely leaning into the touch. Steve then so would rightfully pounce on him, reminding him that he was the dad, and dads can do whatever they wanted to with their children. Hugs included. Peter would lose the effort ultimately, but that did not matter. Because, in the end, he figured a hug from his dad was not all that bad. 

"I'm proud of you for what you did tonight, Pete," Steve praised gently, not wanting to give his son too much of a hard time. Especially after all that had happened. Peter did not need that. He needed rest, something to eat. A crappy movie, even.

He continued, still snuggling his son to his chest, "but you need to be more careful. You didn't even have your suit for protection. You could have been killed."

The importance of the Spider-Man suit would seem like a maddening ordeal to anyone outside of the Stark-Rogers family unit. It was all Peter's parents reminded him of before any mission. Pieces of fabric threaded together by string was what some ordinary person would see once the getup was on. But to Stark and Rogers, those pieces of cloth were the only things that kept their son safe should they not be within close reach. Tony specifically made sure. 

When Peter was bit by the genetically mutated spiders those few years ago, and the signs of super-human capabilities came through, the two fathers were quick to prepare. Peter had mentioned his excitement for his newfound potential, and related to Steve primarily of how desperate he was in wanting to aid in the fight of good verses evil. So Rogers became his trainer in the art of physical mastery and strength. Working on muscle buildup and general combat knowledge, ex-military standards. Stark was on the antithesis. 

Alongside his son, Tony manufactured and built a suit of the most advanced and technical brilliance known to that point. Deep in the lab of Stark Tower, the two carefully embedded thousands of micro, electronic pods to the outer and inner workings of the suit's material. These pods, though tedious to assemble, could withstand severe frost and heat exposure, protecting the wearer for an extended period of time. Tony tried to make this feature permanent but there was only so much engineering that could be done to a wired device no bigger than a fingernail. He as well added bullet resistance mechanics, linings on the suit that would take most of a firearm's damage should Peter be shot. Or even, punched. The eye holes were constructed to safety too, with paper thin lenses being used to shield his son's eyes from various gases and possible shock waves. Tony made it a priority to be sure that his son would be defended wholly. 

But Peter did not have his suit. Not this time. 

Steve adjusted tenderly after some time, now coming to a sit next to Peter, rather than having the boy held on his lap. Rogers was glad to see Peter in some state of well. Even more so knowing that whatever Tony administered to his body was working.

He cupped his hand lightly around the back of his son's neck and massaged the abused skin with his fingertips. "Take it easy next time, okay? Please, kiddo. I don't know what I would do if something happened to you.... Promise me?"

Peter nodded, finding Steve's calmness about the whole thing relaxing, comforting. But he could still see it in his eyes, that flame of parental extreme. Steve was a father, a protective one at that. Should Peter have been in any worse condition, without a doubt Steve would have gone to murder. But his son was safe, he was home. And Rogers decided that any punishment for his stupidity should be prolonged. At least, until he was fully well again. Peter was alive, that was all that mattered.

"I promise, Pop," the boy vowed, "I swear the next time I think about even going to save-"

"To hell you aren't," Tony butted in, just coming back from putting away the medical kit. He was standing in the hallway cutout, his lips were drawn to a perfect line of focus. His eyes blazed into Peter's.

Confused, the boy stood, with the helpful support of Steve's hands, and confronted his father. The limp was there, and by God did it hurt; yet, Peter somewhere found a motivation to go on and overcome. A speckle of energy not yet tired or broken down. "Wait, what?," he asked in awe, "Dad, what are you-?"

"You could have died tonight, Peter. _I almost lost you_ ," the father stated, royally pissed. "Now I am so proud of you for saving that man, trust me, I am. But you putting your life in that kind of danger is not only stupid but completely reckless. You didn't even have your suit. And now because of that, me and your father have to bandage you up, and keep ourselves at some level of sane."

Tony sighed, looking away only for a second before continuing: "look, pal, I know you want to be a hero. But putting yourself in spots like this can only lead to one thing. Do you even understand how badly that would hurt me, how badly that would hurt your pop, if something were to ever happen to you? God, Pete...."

Wondering back over to the kitchen, disregarding his son entirely, Tony leaned along the counter's edge, and prepared the coffee maker for a fresh cup. Or rather, cued JARVIS to do so. Stark sensed could use the sugar, he could use the energy. Peter wasn't far behind in following, he struggled surely, but he was not far. The youth watched as his father chose his favorite mug slowly from the upper cabinet: a ceramic white model with a 'world's best dad' logo plastered on. He observed closely as his father poured the coffee into the mug, dosing it with four scoops of sugar, no cream.

Steve had no clue as to why Tony would make coffee this late, and could only stare on dully as the demonstration of drink making went on a couple feet away. It was even more jarring to him that his husband did not add cream. Tony hated the taste of a bland brew. But Rogers sat there, on the couch, unmoved. For whatever was going on within his spouse, he did not want to interfere. There was a deep rooted suffering in Tony, his body language showed that clearly. Rogers chose to wait. 

Externally, Tony was stone face, making his drink of the night without actual thought or interest. Inside, he was a screaming hopelessness that drowned in the rivers of his own trauma. The idea of losing his son, the reality that his world could have ended that night, punctured his stability significantly. He was not thinking straight, not as he usually did anyway. Tony Stark could not be a childless father. He knew some men could cut it, that they would find ways to go on. Perhaps have more children too. But, he was not one of them. Since the age of two or so days old, right at the time of his full adoption, Tony had loved Peter. To be without that love would be worse than anything else imaginable.

Gingerly, Tony sipped his hot beverage once it was done to his liking. It went down strong, burned and sweetened his tongue in succession. He glanced at Peter, who was at current studying him with puzzlement. His husband did likewise from the couch. Stark kept on drinking until satisfied. 

Smacking his lips together, the eldest soul enjoyed the partaking of his refreshment, savoring the taste. It warmed his belly. Tony spoke again, coolly, only after slurping another sip. "I want your web-shooters on my workbench by tonight. Same thing with the suit and mask that I know are in your room. Boots too."

Peter gasped, audibly shocked at what was said. "But, dad," he whined out, "I saved his life! You can't just take away my things. I did my duty as Spider-man!"

"Yeah, well, I don't care. I want them before breakfast tomorrow. And I don't want you out any later than 3:30 from now on. I want you home on time everyday, unless or until I say so."

Steve rose up at the final decree, finding it all to be a tad too harsh. Though, he knew Tony was only doing this out of his goodness of his heart. He would never mean to hurt Peter, ever. But a father's woes knows no bounds, especially for a man like Stark. And Rogers, though he acknowledge that Peter had only gone out initially to visit a friend a short while, understood the position from which his husband made his demands. The taller of the bunch walked over to Tony's other side, and his hand caressed the other's bicep lovingly. "Tony, doll, I think you're being a bit too strict here. Pete, he was just trying to do the right thing. He's home now, everything's alright. We can talk this over tomorrow. After our movie."

"Steve, baby, no. He needs to learn, and if I have to be the bad guy for him to get it, I'll be the bad guy," Tony told him, shooting back the final drop of his coffee. He winced at the bitterness; should have add cream.

Mindlessly, Peter played with his web-shooters, finding the idea of having to hand them over to his dad to be one he did not agree with. Why was Tony being like this? So un-supportive, so blind to the big picture? Could he not see that Peter had done something great? Something of worth? Steve could, he said so himself. Peter shook his head, choosing to fight for his point rather than back down. 

Scoffing at Tony, he snapped, "so you and pop get to save people, get beat black and blue, and everything is okay? But when I do, I get punished and have all the things I worked so hard on get taken away? That is so unfair, dad!"

"I'm the dad I don't have to be fair," chuckled Tony in an almost sarcastic, condescending way. If his son was trying to gain his favor, the whine did nothing. However, the father found it obnoxiously cute, he smirked so. 

Peter mewled, his voice practically begged and whimpered in his attempts at leniency from his parent. "Why are you being like this? You know I can fight, you know I can. Pop does too, don't you, pop? Dad, please! Can't you see that I'm okay? Why do you have to be such a stubborn ass about this? I'm fine!"

Swallowing the insult down, Tony inhaled deeply and turned to his son. His features were authoritative, strong willed. "You wanna know why I'm a 'stubborn ass', Pete? Because I don't feel like burying my son when he's only but a child. Because I don't want to have somebody tell me that my baby is dead. I know it's hard for you being a teenager and all to understand, but when you're a parent you have to make some tough choices. I don't want to do this, I really don't. But seeing the effects of tonight have really shown me what has to be done. Now, when you grow up and go on with your life, you can do just about whatever you want. But for right now, you live under my roof, what I say goes. No more Spider-man, not now. I can't.... I can't lose you, Peter! I can't. It would be the death of me.... I just can't."

Young Tony Stark would have died of laughter had he seen the man he would eventually become. Tony Stark from mere years ago would be appalled. Here he was, Iron Man himself, the world famous genius and philanthropist, arguing with his son over a matter that most dads would be comfortable to let go of. Where he picked up the habit, he was not sure. Lord knows his parents did not give it to him, neither did any other adult. Not even Steve could be blamed for this. This was all Tony Stark. 

Using his fingertips, Stark brushed away a few loose tears that strung across his eyes and cheeks. Finally, the great wonder broke. Steve went to console him, offer him some comfort, but his advancements were only turned away. Tony did not wished to be touched. 

Peter gazed on, absolutely unaffected by how his father was; no, on the contrary, he was heartbroken. But his face did not show it; the profile was cold, animalistically vicious. He hated seeing his father so upset, his pop too. However, that did nothing to change how he felt, how angry he was. He was a hero, he was Spider-man. This was all he ever wanted to be. To be like his fathers: amazing. 

" _I hate you for this_ ," Peter hissed, storming off to his room, or rather, wobbling. The ground trembled when the boy slammed his door behind him. The vibrations echoed against the walls, inside Tony's ears. It was a dreary sound. 

Tony did not say anything as Peter left, he just stared dumbly, speechlessly. Peter had never said anything like that to him before. For awhile, the father actually thought that the boy was incapable to. It seemed that he was wrong, proven so just then. Steve yelled after the boy, calling Peter by his full name, insisting that he come back and apologize. Peter ignored them both.  

Rogers was surprised, there were no other words for how he was feeling. How could something so cruel, so full of disgust, come out a person as sweet and as kindhearted as Peter? The whole thing felt like an ironic joke. Steve was now waiting for the punchline. 

Making his way back to Tony's side, Steve tried to draw his husband of over a decade back. His hand graced lightly along the other's back, rubbing the tensed muscles. "Don't mind him, darling. He's just upset. He didn't mean it."

"Did you see the way he looked at me?," The shorter of the pair asked, whispering. The soft brownness of his eyes were fix to an ugly black, complete sadness. He did not bother to look up at the younger man. 

Loving Peter was easy, Steve could say that without a stutter. Since the day he and Tony picked him up from the hospital, it had been the truth. Adoring his spouse, that too was as simple and as natural as breathing. He loved Tony, the years together proved it so. But the fighting, that was a thing of which Rogers could never become used to. It was a foreign invader to his happiness. A murky, evil blob that ruined every magnificent moment for his beloved family. He wished knew how to make it go away, how to rid both of his most favorite boys of their sorrows. It ached his heart to a lonely rot. 

"I think, I think i'm gonna go down to the lab. I got some stuff to work on," stuttered Stark with his eyes downcast to the ground. "Don't wait up on me for dinner."

"Tony," Roger's hushed, his hand slipped down to lace his fingers with his husband's. Gently, Tony pushed him away, sulking down the hall and toward the stairs that lead to his lab. Steve would never be able to forget how Tony looked walking away. The image was stained onto his memory. 

Now standing in the kitchen alone, without either one of his boys, Steve exhaled tiredly. Combing a hand through his sandy hair, his mind lingered to what transpired, it was all so fresh. He could feel the coldness, the emptiness left behind by the argument that unfolded. It was a nauseating experience. Absentmindedly, the man began to clean up around the kitchen, putting away Tony's used coffee mug for starters into the empty sink. He figured both would need some alone time to cool off, so why not be of use til the dust settles.

"Oh my boys," Steve rambled, finding his lone company boring, unsatisfying in conversation. "Whatever am I going to do with you?" 

Sniffling the air, a waft of unpleasantness filled his nose, stuffed the room. He looked down. 

There in the oven, the pizza had burned. 


	3. Chapter 3

Crying, in tradition of the word, was always a melancholic affair. No one person could ever feel elated over its course. Unless that is, there are moments of celebration. But there was nothing to celebrate about now, not for Peter. Alone, as he was, his cries were pathetic and dangled on forlorn. The boy was ever grateful for his fathers not being within his company. He looked wretched.

Tears spilled down his cheeks like paint to a canvas, coloring the tanned flesh in strokes of scarlet. The wetness cleansed his eyes yet all the while blinded his vision; his heart felt so heavy. The boy did not bother to throw on a fresh shirt. Something to use as cover for his naked chest. Nor, did he change out of his stained jeans. Peter just sat there on his bed, propped up by the combination of pillows and headboard. Crawling beneath the sheets was an idea long tossed away, he did not wish to do it. His shoes and socks stared blankly at him from the floorboards. The Web-shooters rested staunchly on the nearing nightstand. 

Peter could not believe himself to be crying. Whatever reason was there for him to be doing so? He had not been the one wounded by some cruel outburst. Or even, the one who was forced to bare witness to the stress of seeing others fight. No, Peter concluded. He had no reason to cry. And yet, he did. 

His poor fathers; how ever he could have subjected them to his temperament he was not sure. They did nothing wrong, nothing that would truly warrant what was said by him. Steve surely did not, he was the most optimistic and understanding. Tony was much the same in the terms. If not more so. And it was not until the crying began that Peter started to understand his position, though slight. Tony had only done what every other father had since the beginning of time and the emergence of adamant sons. 

He would never be able to forget the sight. Peter knew, that even as a sullen old man, he would remember the sorrow of his father's eyes as he walked away. He would never cease to remember the glimmer of heartbreak that shinned as he cursed his sentiment. Thinking of it so, the boy whimpered shamelessly into his healed hands. Eating him alive was the torment known as guilt. And, it appeared that the affliction was bound to remain. 

Suddenly, he heard a knock against his door. The sound was light, timid even. Who ever it was, they too seemed afraid and worried. Hastily, he wiped his tears and face with the palms of his hands, his fingertips dampened. Curling over and away, the boy scooted until he was on the side of his bed furthest away from the door, leaving half of the bed unoccupied. He buried himself underneath the heap of blankets and snuggled, his face rested along the pillow, feigning sleep. It was his last chance at an act of disappearance.

Peter could hear the door open and the owner of the knocks enter, their feet thudded on top of the floor sluggishly. Whichever parent it was, regardless of whom in reality, did not bother to wait for a response. Instead, upon coming into the teenager's room, they moved toward the bed, shutting the door behind themselves. Each step was softer than the last as the strides came closer and closer to Peter. Perhaps they believed him to be asleep. But that could not be, Peter was no actor, as evidenced before. The footsteps continued. 

Eventually, the walking finished. Peter could sense that the other had made it to the bedside with relative ease. Their body heat flung to his own despite the distance. It was comforting. The warmth soothed some of the heart's ache; it settled few woes. The mattress dipped as weight was added. The other had chosen to sit down. 

"My father used to say that 'you don't get to climb the American ladder without picking up some bad habits on the way.' I always thought he was meaning company business. But, now I suppose he was speaking of the everyday stuff too."

Peter laid as he was in complete silence, fretting little to turn himself over. To expose his face would be exposing his crime. One look would be the end, and Peter sensed that every ounce of suffering endured would be revealed. Blabbering and messy was how his apology would likely come out, despite his best effort. Peter could not go through the act, not yet. Not when the other expressed a need to divulge, to answer for themself.   

Listening to the voice solely, the kind and affectionate vibrato, was a bizarre, surreal experience. The usual warmth was there, adding a recognizable gruff to the cascade of conversation. Age played well into the quality too, Peter surmised, for there was a sturdy sensibility that he had not noticed before. Hidden beyond the constant humor, it must have been. A funniness the boy had unexpectedly grown needy of. Peter craved for one, foolish joke.

The voice recommenced after awhile, resonating with an unignorable crack that the youth was quick to catch. The other must have been crying too. 

"Cause nobody can go through life unscathed. No one. Everyone has something about themselves that they wished they didn't. Some stupid, old nasty habit that takes them down. Heaven knows I got mine."

Tony went on, breathing deeply: "I got an ego problem, that's one thing. I'd prefer to call it unwavering confidence, but let's face it. Strip it bare, that's what it is. And, though it may fit well with me being who I am, I've started to realize that having this  _thing_  might not be within the best interest of those I care about. Because, you can't run a family like a company, like how you carry your professional persona. The whole charming, suave act that I do won't ever take care of my loved ones. Having the mindset of a famed know-it-all, who only worries about his own opinions, won't do a lick of benefit to anybody, myself included."

Reclined beside his son, Tony gazed on helplessly to the scrawny lump. The boy was in no way asleep, his position and odd pacing of breath displayed otherwise. But the fact he was listening, actually paying attention to what was being said, did a great deal for Tony. He never pictured this happening as it was. The next morning was the most likely guess, but the father was glad that this was happening at all. To end the night on a sour note, on something that he discovered, while immersed in the lab, to be just as pointless as Steve had suggested prior, was unquestionably dumb in his book. 

Rubbing the underside of his eye, smoothing both the matured skin and former tear lines, Tony continued. "I guess it's just something I've grown with. I run with the notion because in a way, it's all I have that has brought me anything good. It's helped me run my father's legacy, it helped me become Iron Man and keep people safe....  _It helps me shield away my pain_."  

"I use my ego because the thought of losing everything I love kills me," he murmured, "if you only think of yourself, of those close to you, nothing will ever hurt them. You can protect them through your own - no, through my own pride. I'd like to think I have seen just about everything. That way my ideas alone make the most sense when put toward any given situation. My experience is my excuse.... my excuse for being afraid."

Squeaking, the bed and all that laid within its contents wobbled to the movement of a body fixing position. It was not until the action was completed that Peter realized what the desired outcome was. Being pulled apprehensively by Tony, the boy's back was greeted with the familiarity of his father's chest. A respective arm looped over him like a vice, gently pressing a hug between the two. With his perfectly trimmed beard grazing lightly against his son's ear, Tony whispered delicately, cuddling into his marginally taller son. 

" _I am so sorry, Peter_. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to upset you.... I just, I love you so damn much. I love you more than anyone or anything in the entire world. You're so precious to me. You're my everything...." 

Against his flesh, Peter felt the beginnings of fresh teardrops, all wet and sad as they were. But they were not of his own. His father, his friend in every sense of the word, was unmistakably sobbing. Every shudder, the son could feel the pulse, though lost through voice.

" _I was so worried about you_ ," Tony expressed, his words shaking. "I know I'm too much to bare sometimes, but please, Pete. You have to understand that I only say the things I say and do the things I do because I want you safe. I need to protect you, not matter the cost. Please, don't think this has anything to do with my being mad at you. Or, that I think of you as being too irresponsible to fight crime. Because, oh dear God, you are such a wonderful hero. You are spectacular as Spider-Man. You are everything that makes a super great."

"But you're still my baby. You're still and always will be my little boy. No matter how old you become, or how much you think otherwise.... _I couldn't live without you, Peter...._ And I won't stand to lose you over my own anxieties. Because, I know that I was completely unfair to you tonight. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being so hard on you. For letting my fears as your father get the better of my judgement, and for failing to see the bigger picture.... I want you to be Spider-Man. Don't bring a single thing to the lab.  _Please_...."

Now whether it was the heartfelt apology, or how softly his father was kissing the side of his head did not matter. For headstrong Peter crumbled unreservedly regardless. There was no way he could possibly hold anything against his father now. For all anger he might have felt melted away, replacing the emotion with contentment. Peter drew a hand over Tony's in a means to conciliate, a fingertip drew over the kindly bones. Tony's own finger did the same, playing gently with the boy's in a lagging fashion, making an almost agonizing note to be tender. 

Flipping over onto his other side, so that he may now be face to face with the older man, Peter imparted. "You know, you and Pop are the best dads in the whole world. And I'm not just saying that out of obligation."

Tony smiled at the comment, his lips quirking. Having Peter look at him in that moment was something that Tony needed immensely. Those beautiful bronzed eyes could render even the coldest of hearts to mush. That nose, strong in ridge and round in tip, were the markings of a man who was gorgeous. A bowed mouth, boyish ever so, was of the cutest variety. Peter was beautiful. And it amazed Stark to even think that such a beauty was in his home. It seemed like an undeserved fate. What did he ever do to be granted something so wonderful? To be given his sweet Peter?

Placing a palm against his boy's cheek, Tony rubbed along the underside of the youth's eye lovingly with the pad of his thumb. Ruby laced in color were the stitch-workings that rested on Peter's skin. His very own tear stains. Tony sighed woefully, cursing himself for not coming to check on his son sooner. Perhaps he could have prevented the markings. But no matter, for love would undo the pain, as would his hands. Tony caressed the skin, hoping to relax its burdens.

"I'm real sorry, dad," Peter apologized, nuzzling against the other's hand. "You're right. You and pop were right about everything."

"I just.... I wanted to be a hero. I wanted to be the guy who saves other people. Like pop and you...."

Peter wavered, his voice becoming wet: " _I couldn't let the guy get hurt, daddy!_ He looked so helpless. His face, he looked so scared. He reminded me of you. And I thought, if that were you, if you were being hurt, I would want someone to save you. I had to save him.... But I wasn't being smart. I know that now. I should have been more careful. I should have had my suit on me. I wasn't thinking."

Peter whimpered, looking away only but a moment. His cries tearless, he had spent them well. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry for everything I said. Please, please forgive me.... I'm sorry, dad!"

Pain; everything he had come to know of it had been of physical experience. Tony could get over that aspect relatively quickly, it was no bother. Even the emotional, the abuse on his mind, was something of which he had grown to bare. Of course, that was taken in stride, day by day. But this, this was worse than either. His son, the love of his life, crying, now that was suffering. Age played no part to the father in question. Peter could be six or ninety-eight; Tony did not care. His tears would still shatter him.

Gathering Peter up in his arms, Tony held the boy against himself, his fingers played along the nape of Peter's neck. Affection was driven to extreme, this lovey-dovey display of touch. Tony could not keep from kissing his son, face or wherever was within reach. Peter fell into the attention swiftly, ignoring the blaring reality of how soft the whole thing seemed. He would relish in this delight. For how many more could he truly have left? The boy clung tightly, nudging his nose into his father's chest, the glowing arc reactor. 

"It's alright, Pete. Everything's alright now. Don't cry, baby. No more tears. I got you. Your daddy's got you."

 After what seemed like hours, the two broke apart, but sat no less in distance. Peter rested against Tony, who, in turn, relied on the warmth of his son. 

"I love you so much, buddy," said the father after looping an arm around Peter. "More than anything."

"I love you too, dad. I really do."

"Aw, look at my sweethearts, guess we made up?"

Tony smirked as Steve walked into the room, his blue eyes lightened with joy. Peter maneuvered closer to his tiniest of father's, an effort to make room for one more on his bed. The blond was quick to take the offer. 

"How long had you been standing there, Rogers?"

"Long enough to see two fools come back together, Stark."

"You know, you could have said something - come and comforted your son perhaps?"

"Well, I didn't want to ruin the moment. And besides, I figured I would let you have this one. Who knows how many more times Pete will let you kiss him?"

"Pop, stop it!"

Steve chuckled at his son's embarrassment, how his skin brightened rosey. His lips puckered to kiss the side of Peter's head, deciding he was missing his quota just as much as Tony. The boy mumbled, grinning as he found himself a victim of fatherly love: _'You guys!'_

But eventually, the boy yawned, his eyes squinted shut slightly. He needed sleep. Neither father was willing to keep him from such. And though they had wished to keep to familial tradition, there was always next Friday. For now, they snuggled their son, counting his breathing and their happiness alike.

Because, in the end, they realized:

 

_Everything was all well and good. For their boy was Spider-Man._


End file.
